


it's too cold for you here

by whalebur



Series: two sides of the same coin [2]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Illness, a lot of dream, dream probably has like bpd or something dudes got bad brain disease, dudes just like techno he thinks so much, hes not a great guy but he could be worse!, like dream just has a bad time and thats what made him who he is, so much dream thinking, you dont really get a resolution at the end but therell be more parts dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalebur/pseuds/whalebur
Summary: His father was a man of steel, Dream knew that, despite knowing not much else. His mother had been plactating towards his father’s sharp words and hostile behavior, and in turn, it had made Dream impossibly attached to the woman. He had had a sister, god knows where she was now, and they had lived in a small house in a big enough town. Dream remembered once that his mother hadn’t said they were poor, nor rich, but that they werecomfortable. The statement, nowadays, had been a bit misleading, because Dream didn’t remember feeling comfortable-- quite the contrary.He remembered feeling incredibly powerless.Dream has been thinking too much lately. There's really only one solution to his problems, but the task of swallowing his pride and admitting he needs others is much harder than it looks.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Floris | Fundy, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: two sides of the same coin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064117
Comments: 3
Kudos: 91





	it's too cold for you here

When Dream was younger, the world had been a different place, and he’d gone by a different name. He had been born with the name ‘Clay’ and he thought of how ironic that was, with the way his parents had melded him into something he had never meant to be. Children, in Dream’s opinion, should get to be children. It was odd, though, because he held that standard to himself and those he called friends. These ideals were not given to Tommy, the project he had picked up and let consume his thoughts. 

Tommy was different than most, Dream recognized that. He had a spitfire personality, he had a sharp tongue and sharper words, and he had friends on his side. Or, at least, he had. Dream didn’t think of himself as a bad person as he led Tommy’s friends away from the boy’s side and onto an opposing field; he thought of himself as someone who was showing a young man how the world worked.

The world didn’t owe you jack shit, Dream had learned that at a young age, younger than Tommy. He figured it was only fair he showed his project what life was really like. It wasn’t like Dream didn’t have feelings, emotions. He did, he cared about people more than they knew. However, Dream also had a desperate need for control. His childhood hadn’t been particularly bad, as opposed to what it could’ve been. He always had food, shelter, a nice bed and a place to shower. It was just little things that got to him. His fingers constantly twitched and trembled when he thought of the things he’d seen and been told as a boy. 

Sailing his boat on the vast lake to visit Tommy had become normal, and he did that today with practiced ease. He prayed that the little shit wouldn’t put up a fight when he asked him to drop his supplies in the hole so he could destroy them. It wasn’t really his choice to do that to Tommy anyways, he _had_ to. Tommy was cunning and quick witted, and if you give a dog an inch, they’ll go a mile. Tommy fought him sometimes, and all it took was a quick swipe with a weapon to Tommy’s side to get him to suck it up and follow orders. It was much like training a dog, Dream had found. You really just had to break them to get them to listen. The difference between a normal pet dog and Tommy was vast, though. A dog had loyalty, followed orders when treated properly, and didn’t question things it wasn’t supposed to. Dogs were usually obedient enough to not fuck up as much as humans, and the same couldn’t be said for Tommy. Dream had decided sometimes even the wildest of horses could be tamed with some conditioning, and if the god of his beautiful land had to break Tommy’s legs just to teach him how to walk the way he wanted the boy to? He could do it.

And he’d do it without hesitation.

\---

His father was a man of steel, Dream knew that, despite knowing not much else. His mother had been plactating towards his father’s sharp words and hostile behavior, and in turn, it had made Dream impossibly attached to the woman. He had had a sister, god knows where she was now, and they had lived in a small house in a big enough town. Dream remembered once that his mother hadn’t said they were poor, nor rich, but that they were _comfortable_. The statement, nowadays, had been a bit misleading, because Dream didn’t remember feeling comfortable-- quite the contrary.

He remembered feeling incredibly powerless. 

On one of their first “dates,” Fundy had cracked Dream’s facade open and pried personal information out of Dream, and the insight to his life had made Fundy say, _”I’m sorry you had to go through that, Dream,”_ and that simple sentence had set Dream off. Figures that when he opened up to someone, they would pity him like a child, as if he couldn’t handle himself. He was _Dream_ , the famous Dream. He owned the world he had created for himself, and he couldn’t help but feel indignant at the way Fundy had reduced him to a sniveling thing who needed sympathy to feel better. Dream went rather silent for the rest of the date, and if Fundy had noticed, he didn’t say anything. Dream didn’t particularly care, only making a mental note to keep Fundy at arm’s length until he could prove he wouldn’t go around acting like Dream needed to be coddled. It was the only way to have the success he needed, the control he craved.

The complicated thing was, as much as Dream hated that vulnerability of being open and honest with people, close with them, he craved it. He craved the attention of being wanted and loved, but as soon as he got involved with someone, be it romantically or platonically, his motives changed. He would change himself to be whatever the person he wanted to impress was seeking out, and he found that with his almost chameleon skin of a personality, he was very, very good at lying. It wasn’t exactly lying, it was just hiding certain facts to keep people on his side and in the dark. Not lying, just not telling the whole truth. His mother, when something would go wrong involving him, would tell him to phrase things in a “positive light” to his father. It had instilled in him this odd way of thinking and acting. It seemed easier to be cunning and maybe a bit of a trickster than accepting accountability for your actions. Sometimes it came back to bite him in the ass when someone caught on and called him out for being a prick, but in all honesty, he was so used to the aggressive nature of his father while he was growing up that comments about him being a douchebag rarely hurt anymore. They were just words, and Dream knew that words, at the end of the day, didn’t mean anything. Actions were important, words were an afterthought. 

Maybe he was just fucked up. The thought crossed his head often, most notably when Fundy wasn’t around to study his thinking face and prod him to talk about what was going on. Most of the time he bullshitted his way through a heart to heart, telling Fundy that he was stressed about the state of his life, his people, his world. It was a stressful place, honestly, with the rising tension and difficulties to control an increasing population. At the very least, with Wilbur dead and reduced to the mind of what was basically a precocious child, things had gotten slightly easier. Dream was now able to safely travel around the place without having a mediocre musician turned leader yell at him for being a “bully” or whatever insult they had up their sleeve. The words of Tommy and Wilbur weren’t exactly cunning, they were entry level insults. When Technoblade got involved was when things stung a bit more than usual. Techno was smarter than he let on, despite his vocabulary and cool demeanor. Dream could tell he thought a lot, thought about many things, actually. In some odd way, despite having a somewhat civil hatred for each other, Dream felt like he related to Technoblade the most. They were both warriors, they both had their demons, and Dream found that Technoblade had an extremely strained relationship with his family, just like Dream had had.

The difference between them, though, was that Dream was a leader, and in his honest opinion, Technoblade wasn’t. Techno thrived off of others, needing at least one person there to get any real actions done, or else he’d spend his time taming horses and mining potatoes. It was boring to say the least. Technoblade had recently gone into “retirement,” whatever that meant. Had he given up his bloodthirsty ways and decided to become a simple farmer? Probably not. There was one thing Dream knew about people like him and that swine: they didn’t change overnight, or ever. The cravings to hurt, to win, and to be something amazing never went away, they merely faded then came back. He knew more about Technoblade that he had let on, having questioned enough people and getting enough dirt on the pigman to fuck him over. Technoblade and he were different in an odd way. 

Technoblade’s hostility was in his blood, Dream knew that. The land, the town they had formed themselves held secrets, people talked about things. Technoblade, ever since he moved into the land, had been different, Dream had noticed. He had a weird way of going about things, a strange set of beliefs. Something about gods and anarchy, alongside a series of delusional morals and thoughts. If Dream could put a word to it, he’d call Technoblade psychotic, but the almost catatonic nature of Technoblade where he went from modes of bloodlust and anger to silence and occasional comments didn’t confuse Dream as much as he should’ve. He related to the fighter, with the almost uncontrollable thoughts he had about being on top, even if that meant hurting people and using them to his advantage. But, while Technoblade was born with a brain that was against him, Dream’s was created and molded into something that worked with firing synapses, ones that set him off with alerts of danger when there was none. Dream was paranoid most days, afraid that he’d lose everything and everyone. He went from modes of smothering his friends with affection, of agreeing to anything to make them happy, to throwing fits and chasing his prey down through the woods to make sure they knew who was in charge. The frequent mood swings used to worry George, and he had forced himself to try and calm down around his best friend. Maybe he was biased, with repressed feelings. When George would smile at him, show off those pretty eyes from behind his glasses and say sweet words…

“Shit!” Dream hadn’t even noticed that one of his oars had slipped from his hand until it was floating a bit away. He’d been thinking too much, a common mistake he made. It wasn’t his fault that he thought of George as often as he did. It also wasn’t his fault that he and his friend were on very tense terms. George had been the one who fucked up by refusing to listen to him, and the lack of control he’d had over the man had made his stomach twist with worry. What if he lost George? What if George woke up one day and realized his best friend was a sick sociopath who thought about him all the time and manipulated him into never leaving? Dream didn’t know what he’d fucking do if George ran off and never came back. They hadn’t talked since the dethroning, really, but Dream constantly found his mind drifting to George’s physical attributes. He had dark, dark eyes, ones he hid with thick glasses that corrected his colorblindness. His lips were nice, too, plump but not too big and proportionate for his face. He had a pretty hair color, too, a nice brown that Dream thought about often. He wondered a few times how George felt about having his hair played with, about how he’d feel if Dream pushed his hands into dark locks, tangling his thin fingers into the strands and he wondered how soft the hair was. God, he was a fucking freak.

Dream was still working on getting his oar back, but the lake had a weird windy current stirring through it. The man squirmed and shifted to reach out to grab the paddle, only for the boat to refuse to stay put. Just as he got a hand around the handle of the oar, the boat turned and flipped over, shoving Dream into cold water. The man gasped as he choked on the lake around him, realizing right then and there how heavy his armor was. It was weighing him down, and he desperately tried to swim up at first, kicking his boot clad feet as hard as he sunk further. The oar was let go of completely, and Dream struggled as he shoved his netherite boots off first, the load lightening a bit. He threw his helmet to the side, then pushed his pants off. It was just enough loss of weight that he managed to throw his hands up on his overturned boat, pulling himself up out of the water, and leaning on the wood as he coughed and hacked up water, gasping as he realized he was in freezing water in December in thin pants, no shoes, a hoodie, and a chestplate. He squinted his eyes as he coughed again, scrambling to try and get his boat upright again. He’d been stupid enough to pack light, not bringing his trident, for once. It’d be real fucking helpful here. He looked towards the land he wasn’t that far from and pushed wet hair from his eyes. He wasn’t a terrible swimmer, but Dream was more suited for land than the sea. He held onto the boat and began kicking his basically useless legs, feeling how numb they were from the cold water. 

Dream got to a point where his feet were almost touching the water, but he was absolutely exhausted from the shock as well as kicking his shitty, sock-clad feet. He didn’t even notice for a moment how cold he was, feeling almost like he was slipping away from the boat into a floating state. His eyes moved and looked up at the sky, noticing the clouds that seemed so dark compared to how they had looked when he had set out sailing. Dream shivered in the water, his ears ringing as the world felt icy and foreign, like movement wasn’t an option and he was stuck floating on a boat that probably wouldn’t hold him much longer. He rested his cheek against the wet wood and closed his eyes, the ringing in his ears intensifying until he heard it clear as day.

Maybe this was his karma.

Maybe this was his fate.

He deserved this.

He should’ve been better.

He was sorry, he was remorseful.

Dream’s eyes snapped open when he realized he was being dragged through the water, trying to focus his vision, only for it to blur again and let his eyes close and allow himself to be swept up by whatever the fuck was grabbing him. Maybe some crazy lake monster was dragging him to shore and he was going to discover that monsters were actually pretty cool. He didn’t have much time to think about his neat, monster pals, because he was being dragged up on cool sand. Oh, it was so much warmer than the water, even though it wasn’t. Dream coughed hard, spitting up water and allowing his savior to yank off his chestplate and backpack, setting it to the side as Dream regained his composure, shivering like he had just taken a thirty minute ice bath. He basically had. His vision tilted and blurred, but straightened out just enough as his ringing ears tried to calm, a loud voice assaulting his ears.

“Dream!” Tommy shouted, shaking him, “Dream, c’mon! Get up!” 

Dream, the ever resilient, forced himself up to his hands and knees, coughing again, before he was hoisted up by the younger man under his armpits. His hoodie was stuck against his body, and he struggled on his feet as Tommy rushed him in front of a fire he had already set up, probably to keep warm. His mask had slipped, and he prayed Tommy hadn’t seen his disfigured and scarred face, quickly pushing the circle of porcelain back in place while he shivered and shook.

“Here, here, I’ll grab a blanket, I can get something, I--” Tommy seemed more panicked than usual, and Dream was surprised he cared about his oppressor dying as much as he did. He made a mental note that conditioning Tommy was going well, but he didn’t have much time to think about it as Tommy ran back from his tiny tent, holding the blanket from his bed. The teenager put the blanket to the side, saying something under his breath about how wet clothes will cause a cold or pneumonia or something. Dream was suddenly brought back to reality as he felt Tommy pulling up and tugging off his hoodie to reveal his toned body that was only under a simple, white tank top. Dream, in his shaky and still shocked state, slapped Tommy’s hands with as much force as he could muster after nearly drowning when Tommy went for his tight leggings he wore under his armor.

“You’re going to die of hypothermia! Just let me help!” Tommy snapped in a panic.

Dream shook his head, trying his best glare on Tommy. “F-fuck you, I don’t n-need help fr-from some sh-shitty teenager--” God, were his teeth really chattering that bad? Why did he still feel cold even in front of the fire? Maybe Tommy had a point about the wet clothes, so Dream picked his hips up from where he laid curled up on his side and shoved them off, left in boxer briefs and his tank top. They were still soaked, too, but Dream would rather die than strip in front of the guy he was supposed to be intimidating and controlling. Tommy seemed to agree with that sentiment, but he forced Dream to sit up and wrapped the blanket around his captor, swaddling him up in the blanket that was just barely big enough to fit all the way around him.

“St-stay like that, warm up--” Tommy said quickly, panic still evident in his voice as he watched Dream’s glazed over eyes focus on the fire. Dream hadn’t even realized he was still out of breath as he pulled the blanket as tight as it could wrap around him.

It took about twenty minutes to not feel like he was an ice cube. Another ten for him to be able to properly wiggle his toes and fingers without his nerves screaming. And then another five for him to feel like he was breathing air, not water. Tommy paced anxiously the entire time, watching Dream slowly regain himself. Finally, the man looked up at the blond haired boy and sighed.

“Thanks,” Dream said slowly. “For not letting me die, I mean.”

“What’re friends for,” Tommy said flatly as he moved to sit a little ways away from Dream, but still near enough that he felt the warmth of the roaring fire. “I think I needed a bath, anyways. The water cleaned the muck off me, I guess.”

Dream decided not to take Tommy’s stuff that day. The boat ride back to the mainland was miserable, sure, and he wanted to feel more than fear and exhaustion, but he didn’t have it in him to degrade and hinder Tommy. Not today.

\---

After Dream had gone home, getting back from a separate boat and not even liking the feeling of water being around him, (even if it wasn’t touching him) he had simply curled up in bed and watched the sun slowly fall from the way his curtains didn’t quite cover the window. The sun slowly fell as it shined through the glass, the room turning a multitude of pinks, oranges, and yellows as sundown came and went. The moon slowly hung on his bedroom wall, and he swallowed thickly as he glanced over his shoulder, listening to the sound of gentle wind outside. If it was a normal night, he would be out hunting mobs, or building something. Dream tended to stay awake until he physically couldn’t anymore. His own dreams, what his brain conjured while he was asleep, weren’t exactly pretty. Once he was lulled into the false security of slumber, the nightmares would start. There were a couple recurring dreams, ones that went slightly outside the norm, but only stuck with Dream for a couple hours after before his brain was filled with some stupid thought or idea for something.

A few nights ago, he had found himself walking to George’s little base in his dream. HIs footsteps were audible as he walked, and the sun was high in the sky, the fall air nipping at him through his hoodie. George, in the dream, had invited him over to talk, and he was headed out, just by himself. Of course, he had his trusty axe, his wits to him, but it was a dream. Dreams never gave you a warning for when they turned hostile, and while you could be prepared with anything in the fantasy land, the game was never rigged in your favor. Nightmares had plagued Dream since he was a child, to the point that he would force himself awake with potions in hopes that he could cheat the system and avoid feeling the terror he felt when everything went wrong. Much like Technoblade, Dream took pride in being certain in things, and in dreams, he felt scared and confused, not having the control he craved. He could see the clearing of George’s house, and smiled, only to be struck in the back. A burning pain shot through him, and he gasped as he looked behind him just enough to see a glowing, powerful arrow in the meat of his left shoulder. The arrow was enchanted with a heavy poison of sorts, and Dream moved to uselessly claw at the arrow, trying to grab the thing to yank it out of his back. He was so _close_ to George’s house. If he just screamed, shouted for help, surely someone would come. Surely George would hear him.

Dream’s voice was uselessly caught in his throat, though, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t manage noise, he couldn’t manage a sound other than his gasps of pain, which seemed to only be noticed by him. Another arrow came from nowhere, as if just appearing to strike Dream down, and this one whizzed throw the air, just to stick into his mid-back. The masked man fell to his knees, and he choked out a pain noise. These were just arrows! Why was he being hurt by a few measly arrows? This wasn’t like him. Dream was still panting as he felt the strong taste of copper in his mouth, scrambling with shaking hands to try and pull the arrows out, even if he knew that wouldn’t help them. The poison tipped heads on the arrows were burning his skin, his flesh, and he pushed his bandage wrapped hands into the grass and dirt, clawing at the ground in pain. Was anyone going to help him? Was he alone?

Gentle hands carded through Dream’s mop of a hair, the hood of his jacket having fallen in his trouble. The man’s head snapped up and he found his friend standing in front of him. George looked heavenly, like something out of a fucking church window. His glasses were off, and his dark eyes studied Dream as Dream’s mixed green looked back up at him. Dream felt relief that George was there to help him, obviously, and he raised a hand to reach out, trying to ask for help with the lack of words he had, using actions instead. George simply raised a brow at him, a serene smile gracing his face.

 _“You’re so pathetic, Clay,”_ George said in a sweet tone, his voice sugar and honey as the words stung through Dream’s mind, his eyes widening in horror behind his… 

His mask wasn’t there. George could see him.

 _“Do you think anyone in their right mind would love someone as fucked up and ugly as you?”_ The voice had a steel edge to it, Dream’s eyes wide in shock as his jaw was slack, staring up at the friend he knew and loved. George gave a huff of a laugh and bent down just enough to shove Dream onto his back, not reacting as the blond gave a shout of pain from the two arrows being jostled. Dream squirmed in agony as the arrows dug painfully further into his skin, as George looked down at him, at his uncovered face, his scars, his insecurities, and his fears. 

_“I hate you, Clay,”_ George said with ease, _“everyone does. You know that, though. You’ve always known it.”_ Dream could only stare up in shock and absolute horror as George withdrew his sword, looking at the blade idly. _“If only you had died when you actually tried to end it yourself all that time ago, huh?”_ Dream couldn’t help the strange lump in his throat that had occurred in the dream, feeling so real, so there. He raised a hand up to reach for his friend, to get someone on his side. George wouldn’t leave him, George cared about him, and he cared about George. There was no way that this was happening.

_“I know what you think about me, I know what you dream of, what your fantasies are.”_

Dream choked out a pained sob, his words still failing him.

George simply brought the sword up as he said his final sentence:

_“Please. Don’t be sinful.”_

The sword was plunged into his chest and Dream had awoke in his bed, soaked with sweat as he sat straight up, a strangled noise coming from his throat. He didn’t cry much anymore, but the idea of every flaw of his being on display in front of George, in front of specifically his close friend who he adored… Barely anything had been said, but he had seen George’s dark eyes, the way he looked, the way he watched Dream, the way he said the name that Dream had mentioned once and George had vowed not to call him…

There was a reason Dream didn’t sleep much.

\---

Dream was still exhausted when he got out of bed that morning. His eyes felt raw from how he’d been rubbing them as he idly laid in bed and sat stone faced, watching the moonlight. Now it was daytime, and Fundy walked alongside him, chattering about something while Dream focused on the path ahead. He wasn’t sure at what point Fundy had put some claim on him, he wasn’t even sure if he agreed to it. What he knew was that George was distant, and that he himself, being the parasite he was, needed someone to imprint on. Fundy was impressionable, and naive, a common theme in Dream SMP. Dream knew that if he played his cards right, Fundy would be following him around like a puppy, just like he’d done to many others. His father, the late Wilbur Soot, had done nothing to help him, treating him like a child. It was no wonder Fundy had grown resentful and fucked over Wilbur and his gang of dipshits. They didn’t understand Fundy’s true potential, they really didn’t. Every piece of the chessboard was immensely important, even a little pawn like Fundy. Dream relished the feeling of having someone so horribly attached to him. It warmed his fucked up, twisted heart the same way George’s smile and kind voice had.

He enjoyed feeling wanted.

“Are you listening, Dream?” Fundy’s voice came from beside him.

Dream blinked, though he knew the fox couldn’t see it from behind his porcelain mask. “Why d’you ask?”

“You’ve barely said anything-- did something happen?”

Dream shrugged. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Fundy’s voice had that pity to it again and Dream’s mouth turned to a thin line as he shifted his weight and straightened his back, stretching a bit. He didn’t need people feeling sorry for him.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Dream replied as he continued walking. “I nearly drowned yesterday-- my boat turned over after I lost my oar and my armor sunk me. I’m lucky to be alive.”

Fundy’s beady little fox eyes were wide. “Who saved you?”

“Tommy.”

“Oh, that’s good. Didn’t know he had it in him.”

Dream sighed. “He’s proven himself quite useful, albeit stupid and childish.”

“He is, you know, a kid.”

“I remember acting more of an adult than he does at his age.”

Fundy’s mouth turned into a small frown. “Well, you had gone through a lot and--”

Dream sighed loudly, pushing his hood off and scratching through his curly hair with a hidden scowl on his face. “Yeah, I know. Don’t remind me.”

Fundy’s ears flattened a bit. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. He should’ve never been open and honest with someone he hardly knew.

“You heard about Quackity’s plan, right?” Fundy tried, changing the topic instead of poking the obvious bear.

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Something about making those pay, making people realize how the world should be, all that jazz.” Fundy offered a sharp toothed smile. “I think it’ll really restore some honor to my family name after what my dad did to it.” For someone who hated his father so much, Dream noticed that Fundy never really shut up about him. Wilbur was mentioned constantly, even if it was in a negative light. Dream reasoned that Fundy was more emotionally intune than him; but while he could handle having the occasional heart to heart with George and Sapnap, he didn’t really feel compelled to ask Fundy about his life and feelings. He couldn’t bring himself to really care. Maybe that was fucked up, but he figured that once Fundy proved himself to be trustworthy after the multitudes of fuck-ups he had shown off about himself. He was naive, trusting, and loyal. To think that when Dream had the simple request of exiling Tommy, a sworn enemy, that Fundy questioned him. It was ridiculous. He was the leader, and there was no way that a simple fox with daddy issues was smarter with him. Dream didn’t notice Fundy’s actions and resentment as well as he should. In Dream’s mind, Fundy wasn’t a threat, because he knew that if something happened, all he had to do was take a sword to the fox’s throat and that fight would be over and done with.

He was just biding his time, not realizing that the “naive” animal next to him was doing the same.

Once Fundy went off to do his own thing, Dream figured that he should probably go check on Tommy, wondering if he had given the boy some fear in his bones from the near-death experience yesterday. He wasn’t keen on taking a boat over that lake again, but it was a deed that needed to be done. The actual journey across the lake only took about five minutes, but the dread Dream felt while making it made a pit of dread in his stomach. He was grateful to get to the little plot of land, the sand feeling much nicer than it had yesterday. With how wet he had been from the almost-drowning, the sand had stuck to almost every fiber of his being, getting in places he didn’t know sand could even fucking go. He had forced himself to shove his damp clothes on anyways and head out without giving Tommy the comfort and reassurance he probably craved.

Tommy was mining, but as soon as he heard the noise of Dream docking his boat and soft footsteps on hard, dirt ground, he popped his head up and climbed out of the hole he had dug himself into. “Hi, Dream,” the boy sighed, not seeming excited to see his friend. _A pity_ , Dream thought, _I’m fucking awesome to be around._ Dream offered a smile that was unseen behind his mask and straightened his shoulders, offering a kind, little wave. He had to keep up the illusion that he actually liked and cared about Tommy. It was the only way Tommy would really bond and attach to him properly. The kid really did, under all that shouting and anger, have a heart of gold. He cared about people immensely, even when they fucked him over. It was making Dream pleased as punch that Tommy had such an attachment to Tubbo even with everything that had happened. They talked about the young president sometimes, with Tommy’s eyes having a glint of hollow under the small light that mentioning Tubbo brought. Dream knew all he needed to do was twist the knife, make Tommy turn against everyone but him, and he’d have a powerful weapon. Tommy was much more useful than he actually realized, but Dream saw it easily. He was tenacious and ready to fight for anything he believed in.

So all Dream had to do was make Tommy believe in a false god.

“Alright, c’mon, hand it over,” Dream said easily, hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. “No arguing, just do what you’re told.”

“You know, I saved your life,” Tommy said, ignoring how he wasn’t supposed to argue. “Maybe you could let me keep my sword in return? I-I mean-- I did rescue you like the hero I am. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Dream gave a soft chuckle. “But who’s to say you won’t use that sword against me tomorrow?”

Tommy made a soft noise of protest. “I wouldn’t! I-I-- I really like this sword, Dream. I worked really hard to get these diamonds, and I got splinters in my hands when I was making the handle. It’s a labor of love, so-- so what if you let me keep it? It could be our little secret. You and me, Big D. Just-- just let me keep it?”

Dream shifted his hands away from the pocket and drew his netherite sword from where it was stowed on his back. “Tommy.” It was a warning, and all he had to say. Tommy made a frustrated noise and tossed the sword into the hole, looking crushed. Dream thought it was a bit funny that he had gotten so excited over the idea of keeping a diamond sword. He had been reduced to being attached to a tool that he knew he’d have to get rid of. It was pathetic, really. 

The masked figure set down the TNT without thinking about it, shooting the arrow and igniting it, stepping back as Tommy tried to move out of the way of the blast. He fell back anyways, landing on his ass, and Dream headed over, offering him a hand. Tommy, who on the first day wouldn’t accept any pity or help, took it easily and pulled himself up with a sigh. He was learning quickly.

They talked idly about things. Tommy mentioned how he was excited for his party, and Dream feigned interest, not wanting to ruin the surprise that the party wouldn’t be happening, and that no one would be coming to see the boy but Dream himself. He chuckled at the right parts of the conversation, helped Tommy mine a bit, and wandered around the camp, trailing Tommy like a shadow. He wasn’t expecting the question, but Tommy said it so casually that he was even more shocked than he felt he should’ve been.

“What happened to your face, Dream?” came the boy’s curious voice as he broke another piece of cobblestone with his wood pickaxe.

“What?” Dream’s body felt cold, cold like yesterday’s drowning.

“Your mask fell a little yesterday. You have scars all over your face, yeah? What happened? Did you get in a super cool fight and come out with some awesome battle scars? I’d pay to see that kind of fight!” Tommy laughed idly as Dream stood there silent, breaking another piece of hard rock off the cave wall.

Dream didn’t like thinking about his face, even though it was a part of him. Almost every inch of his body was riddled with scars, but his face was what got him. When he was younger, he had been attractive, in his own opinion. Girls liked him, they’d talk to him as he walked through town, and he never feared his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He had sandy blond hair, streaks of dark in it, and pretty green eyes, but his face… it wasn’t something beautiful. He hated it, and the mask he had made him feel safe, and kept people from gawking at him. He had a long scar that went from his left cheek, across and up the bridge of his nose, and chipped into his forehead. The scar was horrible, ugly and puffy, and it made Dream understand he was more of a beast than people knew. He had a wash of freckles on his cheeks, ones the scar cut into and split apart with a ravine of an injury. His lips weren’t beautiful either, a scar over the bottom one where his lip had been split open completely and needed stitches that he had to do himself. He had dimples, but they were overshadowed by his ghastly injuries, and his eyes constantly scanned the earth, large and wide. He always had felt his eyes were too big for his face, and that his eyelashes were too long for a boy. It was to the point that he’d taken scissors to them when he was fourteen… they took forever to grow back. On his chin, he had a divot from a fight where his enemy had shoved his mask up and really gotten to him. Only Sapnap had seen his face, and it was only because they’d been friends for as long as they had been. He’d had bandages over it all for ages, hiding away his insecurities. Sapnap had gotten him the mask when he was seventeen, having painted it himself with the signature, empty smile. 

_“‘Cause your lips can’t really do that right, because of the scar?”_ Sapnap had offered. _“This way you’ve always got a smile on.”_

Dream could almost cry at the thoughtfulness of his friend. He had put on the mask eagerly and asked how it looked, and Sapnap had replied honestly, with a grin.

_”You look fucking awesome.”_

The mask was a bit worn, now, but Dream had taken very good care of it over the years, making sure it didn’t get hurt. It was his most prized possession, and he couldn’t have thanked his friend enough for helping him feel more comfortable in his own skin. His father had noticed the mask a few months before he left, idly watching Dream sit there on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Dream remembered the sound of footsteps and the scraping of the chair legs against the wood floor as his father sat across from him, studying the eerie smile of the mask. He cleared his throat after a moment, and Dream looked up from his book, swallowing.

 _”You should be proud of what I gave you, Clay.”_ His father’s voice always had a steel, ice cold tone to it. Dream had noticed that he never spoke to his daughter that way, only his son. The empty eyes of his mask stared into his father’s eyes, the holes big enough that Dream’s green eyes took in the sight of his dad’s unhappy expression, his thin line of lips. His father spoke again, after a few moments.

_”Take off the mask.”_

Dream hesitantly raised his hands and pushed down his hoodie, going to the strap on the back of the mask and unbuckling it slowly and carefully. He took the mask into his hands, thumbs running over the smooth porcelain as his father watched him. 

_”Wear that thing in front of me again, and I’ll give you a fucking reason to cover up. Got it?”_

Dream nodded dumbly, glancing down to the mask and that empty expression on it, wishing he could disappear, wishing he wasn’t some fucking freak. It had only been a year since his dad had lost his shit and had done the deed. Dream could still remember his mom yelling at his dad to stop, to not do it, saying not to hurt her son. Even as she said to stop, even as she screamed and listened to her son cry out in pain as a blade dug deep into his skin, a hand around his throat pinning him down as his father sat on his chest… she hadn’t gone in to intervene. She had stood there with his sister and watched it happen.

No one had been on his side, they just acted like they were.

Dream’s nails dug into the flesh of his palm as he stared at the back of Tommy’s head, the boy having not turned around yet. He wasn’t sure what to say. He could tell Tommy everything, how he’d pissed off his dad, taken him on in one of the few fights in his light he had lost. It had cost him everything. He could lie and tell Tommy they were battle scars from an epic tournament where he took on opponent after opponent. He could tell Tommy that it was none of his fucking business and that he should shut up and sit down before Dream blew up his stupid fucking tent and everything he had. But he didn’t say anything, he just stood there with a pained feeling in his throat, the words George had spoken in his dream fresh in his mind, mocking him.

_You’re so pathetic, Clay._

_If only you had died._

_Please. Don’t be sinful._

Dream didn’t even notice for a moment that Tommy had turned around to look at him, wiping sweat from his brow with a confused expression. He was so lost in his own head, everything hitting like a freight train. It all felt like too much, and he felt like a wild animal. Animals don’t just attack randomly, they have reasons. They know predators, and they feel fear when they see them. To Dream, everyone was a predator, and he was desperate to turn them into the prey he had always felt like. He wanted to hurt people like he had been hurt, he wanted to betray and have the upperhand, he wanted something worthwhile. His cold heart was warmed sometimes, when he heard certain people talk, or saw something good in the world, but that wasn’t often anymore. He wanted to create something he could count on, now. Not Sapnap or George who had abandoned him for doing the right thing, not Technoblade or Tommy, who sat against him in their own relatable way, not even Fundy who strolled with him through the afternoon, but stood in a room with Quackity and Tubbo, looking at posters of those they needed to go after, of those they needed to take down. The community was split down the middle, and then cracking even further beyond that. Dream found that he could count on himself, and himself only. He didn’t need anyone. If he didn’t have anyone, he couldn’t get hurt. If he didn’t get hurt, he’d be okay. If he just kept pushing forward again and again something would have to give, right? He wanted something to give, he wanted something nice. He wanted a stupid accent, dark eyes, brown hair, strong hands, something formidable. He wanted people in his life who wore stupid headbands and made masks that people thought looked like a child’s art project. He wanted all these things he had fucked up for himself and at the end of the day, loneliness was a feeling he knew well. He was used to it, it was normal, it felt safe. He could count on being lonely.

“Dream?” Tommy tried, staring at the porcelain smile, as if he could see Dream’s scared expression under it.

“I… need to go.” Dream turned on his heel, taking large steps out of the cave and onto solid ground. He walked towards his boat, shoulders trembling as he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. What happened when his mask fell and shattered, when the facade he had made for himself just became something he couldn’t rely on anymore? What happened when he lost everyone? What happened then? Would he die a hero, or would he be dumped in a forest, left to rot and be eaten by wolves? The feeling made Dream sick to his stomach, and as he got in his boat, he figured there was only one person who would understand his fucked up brain. He needed to go to them.

\---

When Dream arrived at George’s little house, it was dusk and he was anxious as all hell. He’d taken his time with getting there, giving no warning that he was showing up. He hoped by some divine power that he wouldn’t be shoved aside and get a door to his face. He prayed to every shitty god he knew, every greek myth that Technoblade believed in, and every person he had wronged and killed, that George would just listen to Dream speak some truth. Dream was desperate enough to admit he was fucking wrong-- he just needed his friends back. It didn’t matter what he had to do. He was going to George to grovel, and then he’d do the same to Sapnap and if that didn’t work? He didn’t know what he’d do. Maybe put on a set of armor and jump back into the lake to finish what he had started.

Dream idled on George’s little front lawn. He heard a few barks from inside, the dogs George had collected probably having smelled him. The warrior took a few uncertain steps forward, and he raised his fist to the door, rapping his knuckles on hard wood. The barking was much louder after that, and he heard a exasperated shout from inside. 

“Get back, you dumb dogs!” George’s voice was present even through the wood and when the door opened, Dream saw him. He saw that pretty smile, those dark eyes due to George’s glasses being off, his dark hair, his everything. George’s smile fell when he realized who it was, and he leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms as he studied the hollow expression of Dream’s mask.

“Hi, Dream,” George said, voice having a bit of a pissy edge to it.

“Hi.” Dream’s own voice was uncharacteristically watery. He couldn’t actually be emotional over this. “Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“I’m on vacation.” 

“I see that.”

There was some silence and George glanced past Dream. “It’s a bit late to be showing up randomly, don’t you think?”

“I needed to see you.”

George raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

Dream felt that feeling in his throat again and swallowed past it. _Did you miss me like I missed you?_ he wanted to ask, _Do you think of me all the time like I think of you? Do you need me as much as I need you? Do you? If I died would you care? Please say you’d care. I can’t have another person stop caring about me. I can’t._ Dream cleared his throat and spoke slowly as to not reveal the losing hand that was his choked and clipped voice.

“I can’t stop thinking about this whole situation-- how I fucked up.”

“Glad to see you can admit you were a prick,” George said quietly, standing up a bit straighter.

Dream nodded dumbly and let his eyes scan over George’s face, trying to read his expression and gauge what the fuck he should do. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what to say. This situation went beyond Quackity, it went beyond George being some king. It was a whole mess of feelings, a series of fuck-ups and things that had been brushed under the rug. The fact that things had gotten this bad, that he had nearly lost his best friend, best friends, it was awful. It made his stomach twist, his throat clench, and he felt just as lost as he had felt when he was a teenager. He felt like he was stuck in a loop like when he was sixteen and all he could do was pick at the scabs on his face, knowing he’d never heal right. Maybe it wasn’t in his fate to be happy.

But god. George made him so fucking happy.

Maybe there could be an exception, maybe he could line out his own life and live happily ever after with a crooked, cut up smile and a man who couldn’t even see the color of Dream’s every day outfit properly. Maybe he could be happy.

“I’m really fucking sorry,” Dream said, “I’m so fucking sorry and-- and if you leave, if you and Sapnap keep ignoring me, we’re going to end up-- we’re going to end up unhappy. We all need each other, you know? We’re the team, the ultimates, the ones who always get it right.” Dream swallowed and pushed a hand through his messy hair. “So if I lose you guys, if I lose _you_ , George, I’ll lose everything. I’ve built this world in my image, and maybe-- maybe my image is wrong, maybe I’m fucked up, and I’m a prick, but I’d really like to go back to making jokes with you, and building stupid shit, and acting like a normal person. Not some god, not some crazy almighty being. I want to be human, if you’ll be human with me. I want you if you’ll want me.”

George’s eyes flicked down to where Dream’s chin was barely visible under the mask, and he sighed shakily. “You really like being dramatic when you apologize,” he grumbled, “it makes me feel bad if I say no, knowing you made a whole speech to say two words that you should’ve said weeks ago.”

Dream laughed, the noise bordering a sob.

“C’mere, idiot.” 

Dream didn’t realize he was being pulled into a hug until his mask bumped into the top of George’s head. He was stiff as a board and George’s arms around him took a second to register before he was melting into the touch and pushing his mask up to properly bury his face into his friend’s hair, inhaling the scent of cheap soap and what smelled like some kind of fruit. He hadn’t even figured out that his body was shaking with these horrible, silent sobs, and he felt George’s fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, curling over and over again, working a tiny knot out of the curly strands as George kept his face pressed to the skin of Dream’s neck.

“I missed you, too,” George mumbled quietly. “If you dethrone me and act like a prick again, I’m going to do a personal manhunt on you, just you and me, and I’ll definitely be the winner.”

“In your dreams,” came the choked and watery reply from the taller boy.

“Shut up, you’re ruining the moment.”

\---

Dream didn’t realize how much a resolution could help, until it stopped helping.

He had gone to check on Tommy a week or so later. Tommy’s party had been a bust and no one had shown up, and while he had made up with George and they were on good terms, talking all the time, Tommy was still his project. Tommy was everything he needed to have power over people. Maybe he’d made a false promise to George when he said he wasn’t an almighty being, a god of sorts. It wasn’t that, though, it was the way he had grown attached to Tommy, despite his best efforts. Recently enough, while in the Nether, Tommy had taken to looking over the edge of the cliffs that stood over lava. Dream hadn’t noticed it at first, but soon enough there were more instances. Finally, he took the initiative and shoved Tommy away from the edge, putting a few blocks down to state that there was no dying on his watch. “It’s not your time to die yet, Tommy,” he’d said with a stern tone, getting frustrated that his project couldn’t handle a little isolation. The hypocrisy was lost on him, with how he couldn’t handle being abandoned, yet didn’t understand why Tommy felt so alone. Ignorance is bliss.

When he arrived at the plot of land with an assortment of items, he recognized that there wasn’t anyone there. The place was practically torn down and ransacked. Dream scoped the area, pushing up his mask to properly look and studying the scene. He frowned deeply and went towards the tent, peeking inside to find the bed was gone, the chests were gone, everything was gone… including Tommy.

The fucking kid had packed up and left. 

Dream felt resentment grow inside him, a feeling of anger and betrayal. He’d given Tommy so much, he’d made sure Tommy could survive, and Tommy had thrown it away and run off. His mask was shoved back on, and he picked up a hardy diamond axe that he knew he could use once he found a stupid teenager that had crossed him. Project be damned, Tommy would pay for this.

Dream was sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> so this is like. the part two to 'tight knit boys'. essentially it follows dream to the point of tommy going missing where TKB follows techno and the aftermath of tommy leaving. there will be another part, but i did want to write some dream feelings, because god knows that guy has a lot in his brain. sorry if my characterization of george sucked ass, i don't know him as well as i should. xoxo, thanks for reading.


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